


.forever stuck on you.

by longing-and-heartache-and-lust (the_ressurectionist)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Reading, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24759721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ressurectionist/pseuds/longing-and-heartache-and-lust
Summary: “‒probably like eight or,oh, nine inches‒ wonder if I could fit all of him inside my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat so that I’d choke‒ let him pull my hair, fuck into my mouth hard and fast, leaving my lips and chin dripping with spit and his precome‒“There’s a surge of burning heat that runs through Geralt’s blood like fire, and he can feel his cock getting heavy under the thick leather of his trousers.No, he thinks, No, this cannot be fucking happening to me, I cannot be hearing his fuckingthoughts.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 1016
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	.forever stuck on you.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valdomarx (cptxrogers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/gifts).



> inspired by this post: https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/620656934497943552/okaybut-do-you-have-any-recs-for-geralt-being-able

If there was something that Geralt hated more than insectoids, it was poisonous insectoids. 

They were just leaving Novigrad - a city that Geralt, arguably, hated even more than all the beasts in the world combined - when Jaskier had suddenly decided that Roach is in desperate need of some sort of a treat and went on about it long enough for Geralt to give in and leave the road and ride through the woods instead. 

Granted, Roach did deserve some sort of a treat for putting up with the narrow streets of Novigrad, jam-packed with people, for almost four days, so the witcher didn’t really mind. 

Jaskier, fearing nothing in this life, ordered Geralt to dismount from the horse and let her rest, which Geralt had for some reason agreed to. It did seem to make the bard happy, though, so he just rolled his eyes but said nothing. 

It was all good at first, Jaskier looking for all sorts of berries that he knew were safe to eat and then feeding them to Roach, muttering some kind of affectionate nonsense to her and braiding her forelocks. 

“You’re spoiling her,“ Geralt grumbles, weakly. 

“Are you saying this because you’re jealous that she loves me more than you, or because you want me to spoil _you_ , instead?“ Jaskier grins, not acknowledging the way the witcher’s amber eyes shine at him like a warning. 

However, he doesn’t have time to come up with an answer, because something rustles in the leaves above them, and all Geralt manages to do is to push Jaskier out of the way before a giant arachasae jumps down from one of the trees, its pincers and teeth dripping with venom. 

Geralt doesn’t have time to drink a Golden Oriole, like he usually would before facing this kind of a beast, doesn’t even have time to think about it, immediately drawing his silver sword and rolling away from the dangerous feelers before the spider can lunge at him. 

He can hear Jaskier try and calm down Roach to jump up into the saddle and take both of them further from the battlefield where they can get poisoned, and Geralt thanks the gods that at least _for once_ Jaskier actually obeys the order he’d been given.

The fight is a quick one. 

There’s only one arachasae and Geralt is used to them, but it’s when the beast is already down that he makes a mistake. 

They’re headed towards Roggeven, and Geralt knows a few people there that would pay some good coin for arachas eyes. He pulls his hunting knife out of his boot, coming closer to the seemingly dead spider, the medallion still against his chest, and before he realises that something’s wrong, he can feel one of the giant pincers slash at his side, venom spreading through his blood immediately.

“Fuck,“ he breathes, taking the spider’s head off with one hard blow. 

***

“The side-effects may include a slight headache or dizziness,“ the healer says, handing Geralt a phial with amber liquid. “But I don’t think I’ve ever heard of witchers experiencing them.“

Geralt takes the offered potion, looks at it for some time like he’s debating whether or not he even needs it, but then Jaskier shoves him pretty hard in the shoulder, and the witcher doesn’t have much choice other than drink it.

The potion tastes bitter and earthy, but not nearly as bad as his elixirs, so Geralt finds that he doesn’t despise it. 

They’re back in Novigrad, which is not something that the witcher necessarily wanted, but the mere second Jaskier realised he’s wounded, he made him come back, saying that if Geralt wants to die, he should do that in his own time. 

On top of that, he promised that once they see a healer, they can leave, and the witcher had to agree, though with no enthusiasm. 

“How long will the potion’s effect last?“ the bard asks, turning to the healer.

“As long as the wound heals,“ he nods.

***

Geralt experience neither headache nor dizziness, but he can feel that something is off.

There’s a weird, dull feeling somewhere in the back of his head like he’s trying to remember something and it’s right there, on the tip of his tongue, but still out of reach. 

The more time passes, the stronger it gets, starting to drive the witcher crazy with the inability to figure out what the fuck is going on.

Jaskier seems to notice that Geralt is even more quiet than usual, but when he asks, the witcher just tells him that it’s because of the poison still not completely neutralized in his veins. 

The poison, he thinks, That must be it.

The feeling keeps getting stronger still, and by the time they stop to set up camp, Geralt thinks that he’s hearing whispers somewhere in the back of his mind, where he can’t make out the words. 

Pointedly ignoring it and just wishing to go to sleep as soon as possible, the witcher sends Jaskier off into the woods, keeping an ear out for him, and starts a fire, getting down onto his bedroll beside it and closing his eyes to try and calm his mind down. 

It takes him some time, but eventually, as he sinks deeper into meditation, his head clears, bringing blissful silence to him. 

Geralt takes in a lungful of air and holds it for a few seconds, feeling the warmth of relaxation slowly make its way through his body, spilling down his shoulders and back. 

“ _Geralt‒_ ” 

He blinks his eyes open, turning towards the sound and expecting to see Jaskier at the edge of the woods, but there’s no one there. 

Geralt blinks, looks around him, knowing that he could not have imagined it.

“ _Geralt‒_ “

It’s Jaskier’s voice, so clear and loud like the bard is right there, next to him. It cannot be anyone else, because no one pronounces Geralt’s name the same way Jaskier does.

And yet, it’s altered somehow, like there’s the slightest edge of an echo to his voice. 

Geralt listens more closely, shuts out all the other sounds around him to concentrate on the bard, that still sounds like he’s somewhere in the woods, leaves rustling under his feet as he collects more firewood. 

“ _‒saved me again, so brave‒ fuck, wish I could do something to thank him, wish I could‒ gods, wish I could come back right now and sink to my knees in front of him, undoing those stupid fucking buttons on his trousers before he can even ask what I’m doing‒_ “

Geralt feels a shiver run down his spine as he shakes his head, trying to make Jaskier’s voice stop ringing in it. 

“ _‒probably like eight or, **oh** , nine inches‒ wonder if I could fit all of him inside my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat so that I’d choke‒ let him pull my hair, fuck into my mouth hard and fast, leaving my lips and chin dripping with spit and his precome‒_“

There’s a surge of burning heat that runs through Geralt’s blood like fire, and he can feel his cock getting heavy under the thick leather of his trousers. 

No, he thinks, No, this cannot be fucking happening to me, I cannot be hearing his fucking _thoughts_.

“ _‒let him come in my mouth, on my face, my hair, marking me with his scent‒ fuck, wonder what he tastes like‒ would swallow all of it, lick his cock clean, wipe the drops from my lips and lick them off of my fingers‒ would he allow me to kiss him after, sharing it? Fuck, is he going to hear me if I just?‒_ “

For a second, it’s quiet, and then, with all the other sounds still so distant that they’re inaudible, Geralt hears Jaskier gasp softly, leaves rustling under his feet as he stumbles back against a tree. 

Geralt bites his tongue so hard that he can feel the taste of copper spill over it, but whatever he does, it’s not enough to silence the bard’s thoughts. 

“ _‒fuck, no, no no no, he’s going to hear you‒ shit, I’d happily let him hear me if I knew that it’s what he wants‒ I’d be so loud for him, so obscene, so open‒ or maybe the other way around?‒ make him moan, whimper, suffocate for me‒ bring him down to his knees, press his chest to the bed‒ **to the ground** ‒ stretch him open with two‒ three‒ **four** fingers, until he begs‒_“

“Fuck,“ Geralt hisses, his cock throbbing in his trousers, pressing painfully against them. “Fuck, just stop.“

Somewhere in the woods, he can hear Jaskier sniffle, like he’s trying to calm himself down, can hear him curse under his breath, adjusting his clothes.

“ _‒fuck, alright, it’s been long enough already, I should go back‒ hope he doesn’t notice how fucking hard I am‒_ “

Geralt can hear Jaskier fumble with the firewood and head back to their camp, his thoughts switching to all sorts of different things. 

It’s the middle of autumn, cold enough to wear a cloak, and the witcher thanks every god he knows for it, because that way he can hide the bulge in his trousers that would’ve been painfully obvious otherwise. 

Jaskier appears out of the woods, hands full of firewood, his breath hitching ever so slightly as he darts a look towards Geralt. 

“You hungry?“ he asks casually, rummaging through his bag and pulling out an entire loaf of pumpkin bread. “Don’t really want you to go hunting with a wound like that.“

“Nor hungry,“ Geralt replies, making an effort over himself to look at the bard. 

“Are you sure? I mean, we’ve been on the road all day, you’re wounded and _‒_ “

“Just eat,“ Geralt snaps.

“ _‒don’t order me around, you **bitch** ‒_“

Jaskier’s voice sounds the same way that it does when he smiles.

Geralt blinks at him, biting his tongue barely in time not to say anything. Shit, he thinks, Do I need to tell him?

He really doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want this to get in-between them, not when Jaskier had become the most important thing he has in his life. 

And Geralt highly doubts that this is something that they can both just let slide, pretend that it never happened, because it’s just way too much.

“Do you want me to bandage up that wound of yours?” 

Geralt glances at Jaskier, who's done with his dinner, clearing his head as best as he can. He usually takes care of his wounds on his own, but the bard had grown unexplainably fond of helping him as of late. 

“It’s lots of blood,“ he says like he’s trying to talk Jaskier out of it.

The younger man shrugs indifferently. 

“I’ve seen you completely drenched in blood on multiple occasions,“ he says. “Washed it off of you with my own hands.“

“ _‒gods, you look good covered in blood‒ I don’t even know what it is, but I swear to god, whenever you’d return from a hunt with your hands, your hair, your face‒ your gorgeous, pretty little face‒ covered in blood, I was ready to let you fuck me right there and then‒_ “

“Have at it,” Geralt agrees before he can think about it, cutting the line of Jaskier’s thoughts short. 

The bard gets up, pushing his hair out of his face and tugging off his doublet. 

“Are you going to undress or should I do it for you?“ he chuckles, cocking his brow when the witcher doesn’t do anything else other than look at him. 

“ _‒dare to tell me to undress you, and I will fuck you right here on your fucking bedroll‒_ “

Jaskier’s thoughts were loud before, when he was back in the woods, but now, when he’s so close, Geralt can almost feel them, like a hot breath against his ear, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

Unwilling to test his fate, Geralt undoes all the buckles of his armour and tugs it off together with his worn black shirt. 

He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, can feel his gaze leave burning marks on everything it touches, starting from his neck and going all the way to his lower abdomen where the waistline of his trousers starts. 

“ _‒drag my lips‒ my tongue all over you‒ kiss you, bite you, suck marks into your neck and chest and thighs‒ trace every scar with my fingers, my lips, my tongue‒ they look so good on you, absolutely incredible‒ leave you a few new ones from my teeth‒_ “

Feeling like he’s losing his mind, Geralt reaches to his side to unwrap the blood-stained bandages, but before he can even touch them, Jaskier bats his hand away and sinks to his knees at the witcher’s side, getting to work. 

Geralt didn’t lie when he said that there’s going to be a lot of blood, and Jaskier has the chance to see for his own when his hands get stained with it immediately, uneven patterns of red going all the way to his elbows. 

The witcher’s blood has completely cleared by now, venom not circling through his body anymore, and Jaskier seems highly pleased with the colour of it - bright-red rather than a deep carmine. 

“ _‒feels so good to be stained with your blood, marked with it‒ fuck, wish I could kiss it off of you, lick you clean‒ bite your neck, feel the blood pour into my mouth‒ swallow it, drink it like wine, take everything from you‒_ “

Without even thinking about it first, Geralt imagines Jaskier’s teeth on his neck, imagines them piercing his skin, blood running all the way down to his collar bones and chest only for the bard to lick it off with that fucking tongue of his. 

Gods, that tongue of his.

Jaskier had a horrible, unbearable habit of using it against the witcher.

Whenever the bard would lick his lips, the end of his quill or - _fuck_ \- the juice of a fruit running down his arm, Geralt would wish he could die.

“ _‒feed off you, mix my blood with yours and tie you to me forever‒ have you in me, always, flowing through my veins‒_ “

Geralt wants to give in. He really does. 

He wants to pull the bard up to his lips, kiss him, lick into his mouth, leave him breathless and with his head spinning. Tug off the rest of his clothes, push him onto the bedroll, hold his wrists above his head. 

“There, good as new,“ Jaskier smiles, getting up and reaching for an old shirt to wipe his hands off on. “Knowing you, I’d give it like three or four days to fully heal.“

Great, Geralt thinks, Couldn’t be better.

***

He thinks that it’s going to be easier when they reach a town. 

Thinks that Jaskier will just go find himself a pretty barmaid or pay the local brothel a visit, but when they arrive not long before midnight and settle into their shared room, the bard decides that he’s not really in the mood to go anywhere. 

“Going to order myself a bath,“ he says, studying the rather big wooden tub placed in a separate room. “You want one?“

Geralt shrugs his bag off of his shoulder and onto the floor, places his swords on the left side of the bed, claiming it and thinking that he will not _survive_ sleeping in the same bed as Jaskier tonight. 

“No,“ he finally says. “No, I’m fine.“

“ _‒could take a bath together, there’s enough space for the both of us‒ climb right on top of you, drag my hips over your cock, making you so hard for me‒ not even bother with stretching‒ god, no, I wouldn’t be able to take it, it would hurt too‒ but fuck, how good it would feel to have you not stretch me enough, so that when I’d take your cock in, I’d feel like you’re ripping me apart‒_ “

Jaskier only stays for a few more seconds, leaning against the doorframe, and the witcher can physically feel the bard undress him with his eyes, devour him whole, leaving behind nothing for others to take. 

His thoughts are... intoxicating. 

More than dirty, more than obscene, more than vulgar - _intoxicating_. 

Dripping with pure lust, Jaskier’s thoughts have Geralt completely drunk on them for the third insufferable day in a row. 

For some time, the witcher is left in what he has come to think of as blessed silence. When Jaskier is not right near him, with his thoughts jumping from one thing to another but not focusing on Geralt, it’s possible to almost ignore him completely. However, the second Geralt hears his name, his attention snaps back to the bard, and he _cannot fucking help it_. 

He wanted to tell him multiple times over the past days, mostly for his own sake, because he couldn’t fucking bare to listen Jaskier fuck him over and over and over again in his mind. But every time he’d muster up the courage, the bard would simply _look_ at him, and he’d break again until it became way too late to try and fix anything anyways. 

His wound looked good, almost healed, and Geralt had decided that he’ll just keep all of this a secret after the potion completely wears off and takes the side-effect with it. 

It was just easier this way. 

Telling Jaskier would not only mean confessing to eavesdropping on his most intimate thoughts, but also somehow acknowledging them. 

If it was easier, Geralt would’ve already fucked him right there in the woods, because _gods_ , he wanted to. But fucking him could also mean ruining everything. It could mean waking up the next day and finding that there’s now a wall between them, because Geralt didn’t know how to go back to normal in case all Jaskier felt for him was lust. 

Just fucking could’ve been fun, sure, if they could both keep it just that. 

But Geralt knew they couldn’t. He couldn’t, at least. He didn’t want to.

Because it was more than lust. It was an ache that would only grow worse with every touch.

It was a hunger that he fears he wouldn’t be able to satisfy if he were to get a taste of Jaskier. 

***

“You should head downstairs, eat something,“ Jaskier suggests when he comes back and sits on his side of the bed to tug off his boots. “They’ve got duck, it smells really nice.“

Geralt settles for acknowledging the bard with his default answer. “Hm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him, undoing the hooks of his doublet.

“Also, stop claiming the side of the bed that’s closer to the window, you do that every single time, that’s unfair.“

The witcher shrugs at him with one shoulder, mindlessly flipping through a book he’d found on the table. It’s a boring old tome on herbology that one of the guests must’ve left here, but Geralt is only making it seem like he’s reading it. Really, he just needs a distraction. 

“You can just put my swords on the other side of the bed if you need the window so badly,“ he says. “I don’t care which side of the bed to sleep on.“

It’s not true, he does. But if Jaskier wants the left side, it’s his.

The bard makes some kind of a sound at him. 

“ _‒did you get us a room with one bed on purpose?‒ could just lean over and touch you‒ could slip down and get your cock into my mouth to feel you get hard right on my tongue‒ turn you around and saddle your hips, leaking with precome from just how bad I want you‒_ “

Jaskier doesn’t take his eyes off the witcher as he unbuttons his shirt, and it takes Geralt everything he’s got to ignore him, pretending like he’s deeply involved in studying herbs. 

“ _‒how many orgasms are too much for you?‒ would you be able to take three, four in a row?‒ your refractory period is probably like a minute or two if it exists at all‒ could fuck you with my fingers until you’re completely wrecked, until you can’t take it anymore‒ or, maybe, the other way around? Edge you until you’re desperate‒ until you’re so overstimulated that it hurts‒ make you beg, make you feel absolutely ruined‒_ “

Geralt feels like Jaskier is trying to fucking kill him. 

Controlling his breathing carefully, he keeps his eyes on the pages of the book, pointedly ignoring the heat that’s spilling through his lower abdomen, making his wish that Jaskier would just go take his fucking bath already, because then Geralt could just get the hell out of the room without having to answer any questions, and then come back before the bard heads to bed. 

He just needs to be alone. Needs to be somewhere where Jaskier isn’t so that the air around him is not filled with his scent. 

He needs to get his mind back in order, and then he might just survive a couple more days without doing anything stupid. 

“Can I have one of your shirts?“ Jaskier asks, already in nothing but his breeches which he’s undoing as he speaks. “All of mine are at the laundress’, I’ve got nothing to sleep in.“

Geralt sighs like he’s completely exhausted, but waves dismissively, bringing a wide smile to the bard’s lips as he leans down to rummage through the witcher’s bags and pull out a shirt that he apparently likes the most. 

“ _‒smells like you, Witcher‒_ _could sleep in the shirt I had on today but I want yours‒ want to smell of you, to feel owned by you when we go to sleep tonight‒ gods, pin me to the bed, **tie me to it** ‒ bite me, mark me, claim me‒_“

“Would you go already?“ Geralt, unable to watch Jaskier undress any further. 

The bard rolls his eyes for the second time of the evening, but does leave, disappearing behind the bathroom door but not even thinking about locking it. It’s like he just fucking waits. 

Geralt sighs, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, absentmindedly listening to Jaskier tug off his remaining clothes and get into the bath, moaning softly as he lowers himself into the hot water. 

For a minute or two, his mind is blank, save only for him picking up the sounds around him, and Geralt can feel his own mind go blank, as well, silence washing over him in a wave of pure bliss. 

He stays in his chair for some time, just allowing himself to take in the feeling of not having the bard’s voice echo in his head, then decides that he should probably just go to bed right now so that he doesn’t have to deal with trying to fall asleep when Jaskier will already be beside him, all warm from his bath and smelling of sage and chamomile.

He undresses, lets his hair down, runs his hands through it to untangle the silver strands. Jaskier is still rather quiet, nothing but a song he’s been composing lately playing in his mind bit by bit as he searches for the words he’s happy with. 

Geralt crawls under the covers, tired and cold despite the flames in the fireplace, and closes his eyes, evening out his breathing.

“ _‒how it would feel to have his press me up against a wall‒ have him tie my hands behind my back with a belt‒ **with handcuffs** ‒ push his knee between my legs just to tease a little‒_“

Geralt can hear Jaskier shift in the tub, can hear his breathing get heavier, and he wants to _wail,_ hiding his face in the pillow.

“ _‒or, oh, have **his** hands tied, instead‒ get him down onto his knees, fuck into that pretty mouth, keeping him close by his hair‒ come in his throat, watch him swallow my seed‒ wipe the drops from his lips and chin, get him to lick it off of my fingers‒_“

No matter how hard he tries to cancel out the sounds around him, Geralt can still hear Jaskier’s breath hitch as he shifts again, muttering a barely audible “ _fuck, Geralt‒_ ” and reaching one hand into the water. 

Geralt knows that he should just dress up and leave, knows that he should leave Jaskier at least something that would be just his, and he already sits up on the bed when he hears the bard gasp softly. 

It sends a shiver through him, makes his mind black out for a long agonizing moment. 

“ _‒we don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, could torment him all night long‒ push him onto the bed, climb right on top, wrap my fingers around his cock to get him hard for me‒ so hard, gods‒ work him over fast and hard, get him to the very edge and then stop‒ deny him the pleasure again and again, watch him grow absolutely desperate‒ collect the precome with my tongue, lick him clean every time‒ fuck, probably tastes so good‒_ “

There’s a quick splash of water in the next room and then a dull slap of skin on skin which can only be Jaskier clasping a hand over his mouth to stay quiet. His breathing is heavy, shallow, and Geralt fails to notice the moment when his own control slips. 

Cursing inaudibly, he reaches his hand down to his cock, already so hard that it almost hurts, and wraps his fingers around it, refusing to believe that he’s actually doing this. 

He listens carefully, catches every little sound that Jaskier makes, all of them choked somewhere it the back of his throat, listens to his the water splash against the tub as he moves, and tries to catch the right rhythm so that he can adjust to it, so that they can move as one. 

“ _‒stretch myself open for him, let him watch‒ only use two fingers so that it hurts to take in his cock‒ lower myself all the way down, take his entire length it, stay like that until I adjust, feel him pulsing in me‒ oh, gods, fuck, he’s gonna hear me‒_ “

Geralt bites his lip, splits it open, throws his head back onto the pillows, images flashing in front of his closed eyes, all of them so vivid that he can barely take it. 

He has to clench his jaw, keeping the movements of his wrist slow so that he doesn’t come before Jaskier does, and all of this is so fucking much that he’s _leaking_ with precome. 

He can hear water splashing against the edges of the tub like Jaskier’s shifting, can hear his nails scrape over the wood as the bard sniffles softly, and then he can hear him _move_. 

He can hear the dirty, wet sound of his hand moving over his cock as Jaskier works himself over, little choked moans and gasps mixing with the witcher’s name.

Geralt can almost see him, standing in the tub on his knees, one hand on his flush hard cock and the other one digging into the rim of the tub so hard that his knuckles turn white. 

“ _‒ride him hard and fast, taking in his entire cock every time‒ scratch his chest raw with my nails, right over the scars‒ let him flip us both around, push my face into the pillows, spread my knees nice and wide for him, keep my chest down‒ oh, fuck, please, Geralt, please‒_ “

He moves his hand faster, curses under his breath, pushing himself closer to the edge, and Geralt mirrors it, wrapping his fingers tighter around his cock, brushing his thumb over the tip, making a shiver run down his spine. 

After three days of this unending torture, he’s already so close that if it wasn’t for his desire to hear Jaskier come first, he would’ve already spilt all over himself.

“ _‒make me pay for torturing you like that, for edging you into desperation‒ fuck me so hard that I scream, that I cry, begging you the same way you begged me‒ slap my ass until I bruise, bite me until I bleed‒ put a fucking knife to my throat if that’s what you want but just don’t stop‒_ “

Jaskier whines, whimpers, muffling the sound as much as he can, but Geralt can hear absolutely everything. Can hear his heart beat fast and hard against his ribs, can hear him hold his breath, trying to make the pleasure last just a little longer, and Geralt doesn’t understand how the fuck does he have it in him to torture himself like that. 

It’s now so incredibly hot it the room, the air thick and barely suitable for breathing, and Geralt feels like he’s fucking suffocating as he moves his hand over his throbbing cock in the same non-existent rhythm as Jaskier. 

“ _‒pin my wrists to the bed so that I can’t touch neither you nor myself‒ so that I come only when you allow me to‒ fuck, would let you come inside me over and over again, until you get enough‒ never going to have enough, gods‒ not with you‒ want you always, endlessly, want you to fuck me within an inch of my fucking life‒_ “

Geralt can hear how close he is. Can hear Jaskier’s breathing get so fast and shallow that he knows it’s making his head spin and honestly, his own breathing is not any better. 

Jaskier’s voice is breaking, edging on a whimper as it echoes loudly in the witcher’s mind.

“ _‒fuck, fuck, fuck, almost there, almost there, gods, just don’t stop‒ please, Geralt, just don’t stop‒ I’m almost there, gods, almost there, just don’t stop‒ just let me‒_ “

The chain of Jaskier’s thoughts cuts short, and Geralt can hear him choke down a breathless moan as he comes, the witcher’s name a soft whisper on his lips. 

All of that sends Geralt’s head reeling, and all he needs is to thrust his hips up into his fist one more time to push himself over the edge and come so hard that his vision goes dark. 

His entire body shaking, Geralt takes in a shaky breath, praying to every god he knows that Jaskier will take his time before coming back into the bedroom, because the witcher can only imagine how he looks right now, breathless, covered in his own seed and just completely wrecked.

Thankfully, the bard stays in his tub for a little longer, his thoughts not concentrated on anything specific and overall, mostly blank. That gives Geralt the time he needs to clean himself off, get his mind back in order and make the bed, so that when the door separating the two rooms opens, he’s already back to pretending to be reading about herbs. 

Jaskier looks... unlawful. Ungodly, sinful. 

In nothing but Geralt’s shirt that goes all the way down to his mid-thighs, he looks _owned_. 

“Though you were sleeping already,“ he says, and there’s the slightest edge of embarrassment to his voice.

“Couldn’t,“ Geralt shrugs. “There was a fight downstairs, couldn’t shut it out.“

“Oh,“ the bard visibly relaxes, Geralt’s little whiten lie making him feel like he’s been quiet enough. “Who won?“

“Knocked each other out.“

Jaskier snickers and gets into the bed, stretching and overall making himself comfortable on his side - the one that’s closer to the window - before turning to face Geralt again.

“Are you just going to sit there and read your boring book all night?“ he asks, patting the vacant space next to him. “Come.“

Geralt rolls his eyes just to keep the act up but leaves his chair to put down the book and get into the bed, as well, having undressed for the second time of the night.

“ _‒wish I could climb right on top of you‒ get my hands all over you, trace your scars‒ play with that beautiful hair of yours‒ kiss you over and over and over again until I fall asleep in your arms‒_ “

And then, Geralt does something stupid. 

He does something so incredibly stupid that he cannot fucking believe himself. 

“Your thoughts are so fucking _loud,_ “ he growls, regretting it even before he finishes the sentence.

Jaskier freezes beside him.

“ _‒ **what the fuck did he just say?** ‒_“

“My _what_ are loud?“ he asks slowly, voice cold as ice. 

Shit, Geralt thinks, Wish I never fucking learned how to talk.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent, trying his best to ignore Jaskier’s eyes that shine at him so dangerously that he’s legitimately concerned for his life. 

“ _Answer me_.“

Geralt doesn’t answer, because getting out of situations like this is not something that he’d learned how to do in Kaer Morhen. And the things that he’d learned to do in Kaer Morhen seem to be the only ones that he can do without fucking everything up.

“Alright, then,“ Jaskier nods, his voice somehow even colder.

He throws the blanket off, gets out of bed without looking at Geralt, reaches for his clothes folded on the other chair. 

“ _‒cannot fucking believe this‒ is this even really happening to me?‒ should just leave‒ should just go to‒ no, no, he’s going to‒ think about something else‒ there are all kinds of flowers in these areas: daffodils, marigolds, dandelions‒_ ”

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls softly, sitting up on the bed. 

The bard turns to him furiously, throws his doublet at the witcher with such force that it actually hurts when the metal hooks scrape over his forearm. 

“ _How could you?_ ” he hisses. 

“I _‒_ I can’t control it,“ Geralt finally says, getting out of the bed and coming up to the bard carefully. “It’s a fucking side-effect from the potion I took.“

Jaskier’s breathing is heavy, full of anger, but something in his eyes softens, nonetheless.

 _“So, it’s been three entire days of you reading my thoughts‒_ ”

“Yes _‒_ no, I don’t read them, I just hear them,” Geralt says like that’s going to make the situation better.

“ _And you didn’t think of telling me?‒_ ”

“Jask, please,” the witcher sighs, holding out an arm towards him but not touching. “Please, just _‒_ just talk to me, don’t do this.” 

“ _You listened to everything else without complaining, why stop now?‒_ “

“I didn’t know how to tell you, alright?“ Geralt feels cornered, and it’s not a feeling that he enjoys. “I wanted to, I really did, but I just didn’t know how. Though that it would just ruin everything between us, so I thought I’d just have to wait for the potion to wear off and keep it a secret.“

For a few seconds, Jaskier is silent.

“And what is it between us that would’ve been ruined?” he asks, voice tired rather than cold.

Geralt swallows thickly, averts his eyes, takes a step back.

Jaskier waits, studies his face, puts his shirt back down but doesn’t let go of it, seemingly ready to both stay or leave. 

“Over these days,“ the witcher finally says, stepping closer and lifting his gaze to lock it with Jaskier’s. “I’ve heard so many things that you want. Heard my name over and over like it’s everything you know, and _fuck_ , I’d give you all of that, but it wouldn’t be enough.“

The bard listens, only a hint of red crawling up his neck and cheeks. 

“I wouldn’t be able to keep it just that, I’d want more, much more. I’d want to claim you mine forever, so that nobody else could ever leave a single mark on you,“ Geralt continues, searching for words carefully. “But that can’t be something that you want, something that anyone would want with a witcher, so _‒_ “

“Gods, you’re so foolish,“ Jaskier smiles, coming closer and cupping Geralt’s jaw with one hand. “Such a foolish, complicated, perfect _‒_ perfect man.“

He’s so close that Geralt can feel the heat that’s radiating off of him, and before he gets the chance to say anything, Jaskier reaches up and kisses him, his lips soft and sweet. 

Geralt pulls his closer, wraps his arms around him, returning the kiss that makes him crumble and shatter into pieces. 

“If you can read my mind, Witcher,“ Jaskier whispers into his lips, pulling away ever so slightly. “You should’ve known by now that when I think about how much I want you, I mean all of you.“

Feeling like a weight he’d been carrying around for years had finally dropped off of his shoulders, Geralt pulls the bard into another kiss, catching his soft moan as he licks into his mouth. 

“Y _ou’ve heard everything, didn’t you?‒_ “ Jaskier thinks, hands tangling up in the witcher’s hair. “ _Everything I thought about back in my tub, getting myself off‒_ “

It only takes Geralt a few steps back for him to hit the bed and fall onto it together with the bard, breaking the kiss for just enough time to answer.

“Those little fantasies of yours made me come a second after you did.“

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly with surprise, but then he just grins, showing off sharp canine and leaning down to kiss Geralt again, having saddled his hips comfortably. 

“ _Which part did you like the most?‒_ “ he thinks. 

“All of them,“ the witcher replies, breathless as Jaskier presses his lips to his neck. “Every single thought you had about me over the last three days, I want all of that.“

Jaskier pulls back to get a better look at him, narrows his eyes, that very same grin playing on his lips and he slowly rolls his hips against the witcher’s cock, making him gasp softly throw his head back.

“The potion is going to wear off when your wound is fully healed, am I right?“ he asks, pulling his - Geralt’s shirt - off over his head.

“That’s what the healer said, yes.“

The bard brushes his fingers over the wound under Geralt’s ribs that’s already more of a scar than a fresh cut. His pupils are blown when he lifts his gaze back up.

“So, we’ve got like a day?“

“A bit less than that, I’d say.“

Jaskier rolls his hips again, reaches down to run the tips of his fingers over Geralt’s hardening cock, licks his lips in a way that makes his cornflower-blue eyes go dark with lust. 

“Will you be good for me?“ he asks, slipping down to make himself comfortable between the witcher’s thighs, fingers wrapped teasingly-softly around his cock.

“I’ll be anything you want,“ Geralt manages, even though he knows what it means for him. 

Jaskier makes a soft pleased sound at him, presses his lips to the wound on his side, and trails little wet kisses further down, all the way to his lower abdomen, working him over slowly, smudging precome all over Geralt’s cock, already flush and hard in his hand.

“ _Then listen‒_ ” 

**Author's Note:**

> I know no shame


End file.
